Indiana Jones and the Golden Age
by shaxberd
Summary: Dr. Henry 'Indiana' Jones, Jr. Archaeologist, adventurer, and finder of rare antiquities. New quests and new allies await as the Nazis continue to build power.
1. A New Golden Age

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"A New Golden Age"  
  
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INDIANA JONES AND THE GOLDEN AGE #01  
  
Written and Edited by D. David Lee  
  
The YesterYear Fan Fiction Group acknowledges that names, concepts, and images of characters used here and ALL related characters may be owned by others and that said owners retain complete rights to said characters. These names, concepts, and images are used WITHOUT permission for NO PROFIT, but rather a strong desire to peer into the potential these characters have in a combined setting. This also acknowledges that original concepts presented here are the intellectual property of the author.  
  
***  
  
April, 1938  
  
Only nine years have passed since the stock market crash of 1929 that precipitated the Great Depression, the lowest depths of which struck in 1933. The world is in turmoil. France's Chautemps government has recently fallen, and Leon Blum has just resigned under pressure, leaving Edouard Daladier as the head of a new, Radical Socialist cabinet. Less than a month has passed since Austria was annexed by the Third Reich. The Japanese have taken Qingdao, and London has announced the postponement of Palestine's partition, moving some 25,000 British troops to the area. The economy in the United States now well on the road to recovery thanks to the relief provided by New Deal policies, the United States government has only recently begun examining the world situation more closely.  
  
***  
  
The secretaries typed nervously and tried not to look at each other as the shouting continued, growing louder and louder with each passing second. Occasionally, the harsh voices were accentuated by the sounds of loud thumps as fists were slammed into desks. Eventually, the argument was brought to an end with the sound of a door being slammed shut. Scowling, a man stormed out of the Dean's office, fedora in hand. Some of the secretaries were glad to see him go, but most of them watched him go with longing in their eyes.  
  
"Blasted bureaucrat! Doesn't know a damned thing about anything but rules and regulations! To hell with him! To hell with everything!" he yelled as he stormed off. Stepping into his own office, he slammed that door shut as well with enough force to shake the entire office, knocking several books and oddities to the floor. Pulling out a cardboard box, he started packing his things and clearing his desk. The name on the door of his office read: 'Dr. Henry Jones, Jr., Professor of Archaeology.'  
  
The string of curses soon gave way to mumbled epithets and sighs of resignation. After all, he'd brought this on himself, and the Dean was only doing his job. That's what he got for gallivanting off every year to God-knows-where after artifacts that most people didn't even believe existed: the Ark of the Covenant; the Cross of Coronado; the Holy Grail.  
  
For any other archaeologist, the acquisition of any one of these artifacts would have marked the pinnacle of an entire career, but for Indiana Jones, they were only stepping stones on a path to fortune and glory that had brought him little real happiness. After all, the artifact itself wasn't nearly as important as the process by which it was recovered, not in archaeological terms. Indeed, he sometimes felt that he was more pirate than archaeologist.  
  
As he continued with the packing of his belongings, he heard a soft knocking at his door. "Dr. Jones? I'm sorry to disturb you, but there are some men out here who would like to have a word with you," said his secretary. She knew that it was a bad time for visitors, and she said the words quietly and reservedly.  
  
"Tell them I'm busy," replied Indy irritatedly, wanting nothing more than to be left alone with his own thoughts.  
  
"I'm sorry, sir, but these men refuse to be kept waiting, and I don't think they take no for an answer," continued his secretary with just a hint of urgency. His curiosity peaked, Indy opened his office door to reveal two men in pin-striped suits wearing wingtips, trying to look intimidating. Obviously, they worked for the government.  
  
"Federal agents, huh? What do you want this time?" asked Indy, more irritated than amused.  
  
Looking at each other with confused expressions beggaring an answer to an unasked question: "How the hell did he know we work for the government?"  
  
***  
  
In a few minutes, Indy was back in his office, leaning back in his chair with his feet propped up on his desk, and the two federal agents, Robinson and Gallagher, were seated facing him. Indy had his hands folded behind his head, and his fedora perched over his eyes. Maybe he was pretending they weren't really there.  
  
"Unless you're here to give me back the Ark, we have nothing to discuss," said Indy, his tone indicating clearly that he was going to reply in the negative to whatever they were about to propose.  
  
"The what?" Confused looks on their faces, the two Federal agents had no idea what Indy was talking about. "Before we begin, Dr. Jones, I must advise that what we're about to say should be considered top secret and a matter of national security," said Robinson, who was shorter and older than his partner.  
  
"Yeah, yeah, what else is new," said Jones, not surprised.  
  
"Dr. Jones, we're here on behalf of your government to ask for your assistance," said Robinson. "It's our understanding that you're something of an expert on Nazi activities."  
  
"Nazis? I hate those guys," said Indy, not thinking about what he was saying.  
  
"Then perhaps you'd be willing to assist us in obtaining some covert intelligence. The President is very concerned about events taking place abroad, in particular the German annexation of Austria. Our information indicates that fascist powers in Europe are planning to take over the entire continent, and the President believes that they may be setting their sights on the Americas as well."  
  
"What are you saying? That the Nazis are planning to declare war on all of Europe?" asked Indy, pulling his feet off the desk and sitting up to look the two agents in the eyes.  
  
"No, Dr. Jones. I'm saying that the Nazis are going to declare war on Europe before year's end," said Robinson, his tone matter-of-fact and his bearing completely deadpan.  
  
"If you already know that, then what do you need me for?" asked Indy, slightly confused.  
  
"We need ta know whether the Germans are really gonna try and take over the Stars & Stripes," said Gallagher, speaking for the first time, his thick, urban accent grating on Indy's nerves almost instantly. "And Uncle Sam needs you to finds out and let him know."  
  
Wrinkling his brow, Indy just glared at the two agents. "So what you're saying is that all of Europe's about to erupt in war, and the United States won't get involved unless we're going to become a target, too," said Indy, his ire apparent.  
  
Gallagher just crossed his arms and licked his lips while Robinson coughed uncomfortably into his hand. They looked at each other nervously for the briefest of seconds before responding. "We're saying nothing of the kind, and I suggest that you not repeat such wild hypotheses outside this office. All we're saying is that America needs this information to know how to respond, and you're the perfect man for the job."  
  
"How do you figure that?" asked Indy, his tone indicating suspicion on his part.  
  
"We know about the intelligence work you did on behalf of the Belgian army during the last war, and according to your profile, you're fluent in most European languages, not to mention several non-European languages. You also have contacts all around the world, and you're reputation as an archaeologist provides the perfect cover. Suffice it to say, Dr. Jones, that you are uniquely qualified for this operation."  
  
Taking on a cynical tone, Indy decided to get down to business as well. "You've certainly been doing your homework, but what's in it for me?" he asked.  
  
"The good feeling that comes from doing right by your country," said Gallagher, causing both Indy and Robinson to roll their eyes.  
  
"We will also arrange an emeritus position for you at the University of Chicago," offered Robinson. "You'll need the academic clout to operate effectively. Certain monetary rewards will also be forthcoming, of course."  
  
Indy just stared Robinson hard in the eyes, not saying anything, waiting for the man to break.  
  
"Ahem. I have also been instructed to inform you that a certain artifact will be returned to your possession at the conclusion of this mission or the conclusion of the war, whichever occurs second. I was told that you would know what these words meant," said Robinson, hoping that Jones would oblige him with more information. He hated being kept in the dark.  
  
Indy just sat there, considering the offer for a few minutes before finally responding. "Tell your boss that I'll think about it."  
  
Standing up, Robinson presented his card. "Very well, Dr. Jones, but be sure to contact me before week's end. I trust that the President can look forward to your cooperation." With that, they walked out, finally leaving Indy alone with his thoughts. Five minutes later, Indy walked out of his office as well, deciding that he'd just send for his things later.  
  
He had a plane to catch to New York, and quite a bit to consider.  
  
***  
  
New York City: Airport  
  
Two older gentlemen were sitting at the airport's disembarkation gate, one of them bearded, the other not, but both impeccably-dressed in finely-tailored suits.  
  
"You know, Junior should have been here over half an hour ago," said the bearded man, a mild Scottish accent making itself evident. "If he doesn't get here soon, we may be late for the opening."  
  
"Oh, don't worry, Henry, I'm sure Indy will be here soon. Aeronautics is not quite a precise science yet. They're always a few minutes early or late, but they do say that flying will one day be the safest way to travel," said his companion, checking his watch.  
  
"Marcus, must you refer to Junior by that ridiculous nickname he seems so fond of?" asked Henry. He'd come to accept the fact that his son had adopted the name of the family dog, but he still didn't like it. To his way of thinking, it was a highly disreputable practice for a scholar.  
  
"Well, I'm sorry, Henry, but I've been calling him Indy since he was sixteen years old. I'm afraid it's become something of a habit, and at my age, changing one's older habits can be a very dangerous thing. Once you do, you start forgetting things," said Marcus, turning his head left and right in confusion. "What were we talking about again?" he asked.  
  
"Never mind," said Henry. "It's not important. Look, here comes Junior now."  
  
Suitcase in hand, Indiana Jones stepped through the gate and walked over to the two men he respected most in this world. "Hey, Dad. Marcus. Sorry I'm late, but we ran into some heavy turbulence over New Jersey." Hesitating momentarily, he then stepped forward to give both his father and Marcus a hug.  
  
Slightly uncomfortable with the public display of affection, Dr. Henry Jones awkwardly returned his son's embrace whereas Marcus returned it readily. It pained him that Marcus had a better relationship with his son than he did, but he was glad that the gulf between them was slowly being bridged.  
  
"Well, come along, then. The opening starts in less than an hour. We'll have just enough time to go back to the hotel and change into our tuxedos. The Park awaits."  
  
***  
  
New York City: Tryon Park  
  
Tryon Park stretched across both sides of the Hudson, providing the people of New York with unobstructed views of the river, the beautiful gardens, and the terraces. The land had been graciously donated by John D. Rockefeller prior to his death the previous year, and a gala was being held this evening to commemorate another such donation.  
  
"Good evening, ladies and gentlemen. As my father always said, there is nothing more despicable and pathetic than a man who devotes all the hours of the waking day to the making of money for money's sake. While he lived, he devoted half of his wealth to innumerable charitable projects, and I only wish he could have lived long enough to see this particular project completed," said John D. Rockefeller, Jr., stepping towards an elaborate rope, hanging from the side of a velvet drape.  
  
"Ladies and gentlemen, I present to you 'the Cloisters,' a proud addition to the Metropolitan Museum of Art that will serve as a showcase for some of the world's greatest art treasures." With that, he pulled on the rope, releasing the drapes surrounging the banquet area, revealing an exquisite unicorn tapestry and a medieval European nunnery. His words and actions were greeted by resounding applause, including that of Dr. Henry Jones and his party.  
  
"Now there's a man who's proud to be called Junior," said Henry, raising his glass of champagne.  
  
"Dad, would you give it a rest?" said Indy, raising his glass as well.  
  
"Cheers," completed Marcus, and with that, they clinked their glasses together, helping themselves to some of the best champagne that money could buy. Looking around, the three scholars could hardly continence the exquisiteness of the detail or the tranquil beauty of their temporally-misplaced surroundings.  
  
Somewhere in the Park, a piano started playing "Sing Sing Sing," a song that was now all the rage in New York. Seeing that all of society's elite was present, Indy had no doubt that Jess Stacy himself was the unseen pianist. When he finally placed the piano, he saw that his guess was correct and excused himself, wanting to greet the famous musician in person. As he approached, he saw other guests already hovering around the piano, one of them a very beautiful woman.  
  
"Hello, I don't believe I've had the pleasure," said Indy, taking the young lady's hand and kissing it. "I'm sure I'd remember having met such a lovely young lady."  
  
"Why, aren't you the charmer, Dr. Jones," she said. "Are you enjoying this little get-together?"  
  
"I'm sorry, but you seem to have me at a disadvantage," said Indy, smiling.  
  
"Diane Palmer," said the young lady, returning his smile playfully. "The young man behind you, holding the drinks, is my escort for the evening."  
  
Indy turned his head just in time to see a young man walk by and hand a glass of champagne to Miss Palmer, extending his hand in greeting. "It's an honor to meet you, Dr. Jones. I studied some of your papers while I was at University, and I've always wanted to make your acquaintance. My name is Kit Walker."  
  
"Please, call me Indy," he said, taking the young man's hand. "I can't abide formalities."  
  
"Thank you... Indy," said Kit, his vocal chords stumbling over the odd nickname, unusual for a world-reknowned professor. "And please, call me Kit."  
  
"The music is wonderful, isn't it?" asked Diane. "I've always loved Swing, but it's only been considered socially acceptable since Mr. Goodman introduced it at Carnegie Hall this past January. Did you get a chance to see that concert?"  
  
"No, but I wish I had. It's not every day that you get to see Benny Goodman, Count Basie, Duke Ellington, and Jess Stacy play together," said Indy, true regret in his voice. "A friend of mine named Jack Shannon told me all about it, though, the lucky stiff. He had a front row seat."  
  
"That's because talented musicians stick together," said an unfamiliar voice. Indy turned to see that he was being addressed by Jess Stacy himself.  
  
"You, sir, have one of the greatest right hands I've ever heard or seen on a set of ivories," said Indy, shaking the man's hand with vigor. "I assume you already know Miss Palmer and Kit Walker?"  
  
"Yes, they've been kind enough to frequent my concerts. And you must be Indiana Jones. If half the stories that Jack tells about you are true, it's an honor to meet you, too," said Stacy, smiling warmly. "And he says you play a mean baby sax to boot."  
  
"That was a few lifetimes ago, I'm afraid," said Indy, embarassed by the complimentary remarks. "But it's nice to know that Jack still thinks about me. Would you mind walking with me? I'd like to introduce you to my father."  
  
***  
  
The evening was over all too quickly. A magical combination of society, culture, and art, the entire affair had been flawlessly-executed. Indeed, Marcus, Indy, and his father had been almost loathe to retire to their hotel suite, but retire they did. Indeed, Marcus was already fast asleep.  
  
"Dad, can I talk to you about something?" asked Indy, sitting down on one of the beds in the room they shared. "It's important, but it's also top secret."  
  
"Top secret? What do you mean?" asked his father, wanting to know exactly what was going on in the life of his son, especially if danger was indicated. "Do you mean top secret as in something you want to keep just between us?"  
  
"I mean top secret as in national security. The government wants me to do something for them, and I'm not sure whether or not I should," said Indy. "I've kind of been looking forward to spending some time with you, but if I take this assignment, I'm going to have to spend a lot of time overseas. I don't know how long it will take, and I can't say for certain whether I'll make it back. I wish I could give you some details, but I can't."  
  
"You're not certain whether you should do this thing? Or not certain whether you want to do this thing? Junior, there is a difference between the two," said his father, his tone automatically taking on the fatherly quality that had been inherent to every lecture he'd ever given his son.  
  
"Alright, Dad, I don't know if I want to do this," said Indy, trying hard not to fidget. This feeling was all-too-familiar, and he didn't like it any more now than he did as a child living under his father's roof.  
  
"It's something to do with the Nazis, isn't it?" asked his father, his tone now more serious. When Indy didn't answer, he knew his guess to be correct. "Junior... Son... Indiana..., sometimes all it takes for evil to succeed is for good men to do nothing. I've received some very disturbing letters from colleagues in Europe about goings on. German Jews being deported, their synagogues looted and burned."  
  
Extremely agitated by the topic of discussion, Indy's father started pacing. "By all accounts, Austrian Jews have also had their civil rights and livelihoods stripped from them, and Italy has enacted anti-Jewish legislation as well."  
  
Placing his hands on his son's shoulders, Henry continued in a more gentle tone of voice. "Son, the Nazi party isn't just another political faction that will rise and fall. It's an evil force that must be stopped. I don't want to lose you, but I know this is something that must be done. And if you feel the same way, then don't worry about me. Just do what you must."  
  
"Thanks, Dad. I guess I just needed to hear you say that," said Indy, taking his father's left hand in his. "I needed you to know that I'm not running out on you again, that this is something I have to do."  
  
"Don't worry, I know. And try not to look so glum. Dark days are ahead, but great heroes will arise to to defeat the evil that it represents. You can be one of them."  
  
"Me, Dad? I'm no hero. I'm just an archaeologist. Just a man," said Indy, nearly overwhelmed by the responsibilities he'd accepted, the responsibilities that were now weighing down his shoulders.  
  
"A man who completed the legendary Quest for the Holy Grail and saved his father's life, don't forget," said his father, his solemn voice simultaneously both loving and commanding. "Just be careful out there. It's going to be a new Golden Age, Son, and I'm proud that you're going to be a part of it."  
  
Reassured, Indy nonetheless responded with a wisecrack statement, trying to show his father that he wasn't afraid, even though he was.  
  
"Why do I get the feeling that this new Golden Age of yours is going to be the end of me?"  
  
***  
  
End of Indiana Jones and the Golden Age #01  
  
***  
  
Dave's Homepage  
  
http://home.hawaii.rr.com/shaxberd/ 


	2. Waiting in the Wings

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"Waiting in the Wings"  
  
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INDIANA JONES AND THE GOLDEN AGE #02  
  
Written by D. David Lee  
  
Edited by Erik Burnham  
  
The YesterYear Fan Fiction Group acknowledges that names, concepts, and images of characters used here and ALL related characters may be owned by others and that said owners retain complete rights to said characters. These names, concepts, and images are used WITHOUT permission for NO PROFIT, but rather a strong desire to peer into the potential these characters have in a combined setting. This also acknowledges that original concepts presented here are the intellectual property of the author.  
  
***  
  
May, 1938  
  
The stillness at FBI headquarters was suddenly broken by the ringing of a phone, a sound that interrupted a ballgame on the radio. It was a Sunday afternoon, and as a general rule, most of the agents had families to spend time with. Agents Robinson and Gallagher were the exception to that rule. Irritated, Gallagher picked up the phone and pressed it to his ear.  
  
"Hello and whaddaya want?" he said, still leaning back in his chair. "Don't you know the Dodgers are down two runs?" he continued, conveying his annoyance to the person on the other end of the line.  
  
"I must be talking to Gallagher," said Indy, not surprised by this particular agent's rudeness. "This is Jones. Put Robinson on before I hang up."  
  
A startled look coming over his features, Gallagher straightened up before motioning to his partner to pick up the phone. "Hey, Rob, it's Jones callin' finally. Looks like he's finally made up his mind."  
  
Picking up his end of the office line with alacrity, Robinson began to read Jones the riot act. "Jones?! It's been over two weeks since we had our little talk! What the hell took you so long to get back to us?!" ranted Robinson, who'd expected a much more patriotic attitude from the famous professor of archaeology.  
  
"I've been busy," said Indy, not thinking he owed anyone any explanations. "But you'll be glad to know I've decided to help you guys out. Three conditions, though. First, I get to pick my own team for this little mission of yours. Second, I'm in charge, and I get to do things my way. You got any problems with that?" he asked, ready to hang up.  
  
"Don't ask for much, do you Jones? Uncle Sam realized that those would probably be the rules a man with your background and experience would want to play by. As far as that goes, you've got the green light. But you said three conditions. What's the third?" asked Robinson, expecting something big.  
  
"I'm going to need a pilot, a real ace, and preferably an American. All the good pilots I know are European and too well-known for this kind of operation. I need you to get me someone I can trust, someone with a low profile. Can you handle that?" asked Indy, disbelief evident in his voice.  
  
Insulted, Robinson made his answer a quick one. "The United States Government is more than capable of fulfilling any reasonable requests you might have, Dr. Jones, and a pilot will be provided for you. No problem. When will you be ready to leave?" he asked.  
  
"The end of this month. I'm going to need a week or two at least, just to get the rest of my crew together. You just hold up your end and have this pilot of yours meet me in New York asap. And he better be good."  
  
***  
  
Los Angeles: Private Airfield  
  
All eyes were cast skyward as a one-man plane streaked across the skies, the sound of its powerful engine clearly audible to all on the field below. The hot sun glinted off black wings as it began a steep turn back towards the landing strip on final approach.  
  
"Now that's a plane," said Peevy, a white-haired gentleman who had been mesmerized by the plane's performance all afternoon. "How fast do you think it was going this time? 350 miles per hour? 400 maybe?" he asked, listening to the sound of the engine as the plane made its landing and came to a halt directly in front of the engineering team that was still busily taking notes.  
  
Popping the top open, the test pilot hopped out, a look of excitement beaming off of his handsome face. "Peevy, I hit 395 on that last run. This Peter three eight is every pilot's dream," he said, climbing out of the cockpit with easy, practiced movements.   
  
"I'm just glad it got you down safely, Cliff," said Peevy, trying not to look impressed. He didn't entirely approve of this test pilot job that Cliff had taken. After all, Cliff had everything to live for: a beautiful girl who loved him, a great career as a racing pilot, and a full life ahead of him. This restlessness would do him no good.  
  
"Yeah, yeah..." began Cliff, who'd heard this particular lecture one too many times. "I always check the plane out myself before each test run. Every good pilot does, and this one was good to go. You saw that yourself, Peevy. It flies like a dream."  
  
"How much extra weight were you carrying this time?" asked Peevy, wondering what the test was for. A one man plane wasn't much good for carrying cargo, and the purpose of the test eluded him.  
  
"One ton," replied Cliff, not really knowing or caring why that mattered. "Pretty fast for a plane carrying a load like that."  
  
"Yeah, it is," said Peevy, not really liking what he thought the plane might be designed to carry. "It's a real beaut, alright. Anyway, I'm supposed to remind you to pick up Jenny for that shindig at Howard's place tonight. You didn't forget, did you?"  
  
Cliff had forgotten and couldn't help sucking in a quick breath and looking guilty. Telling falsehoods was not something that he was good at. "Um...no, of course not. What time does that thing start again?" he asked.  
  
"In about three hours from now. You'd better get going," said Peevy, who smiled knowingly. "Jenny is not the kind of girl you keep waiting."  
  
***  
  
New York: The Palmer Estate  
  
Servants hustled busily from place to place within the estate, polishing the silver and dusting the furniture, not that anything was even remotely out of place. Yet another in a string of soirees had been planned for the evening, and everything had to be perfect.  
  
Trying to stay out of everyone else's way, the young lady of the house was taking care of some last minute invitations, and the young man with her was trying hard not to start yawning out of boredom.  
  
"So there's going to be another party tonight?" asked Kit, tapping his fingers idly against the tabletop. "Doesn't the excitement ever end?" he continued sarcastically.  
  
"In New York? Never!" joked Diana, trying to ignore Kit's tone. She continued to check off names and numbers on the list in front of her, making sure Dr. Jones and his family had been invited. Finally, she relented. She was well aware of the restless streak that had overcome him of late but wasn't sure what she could do about it. "Alright, what's bothering you?" she asked.  
  
"Nothing... something... I don't know," said Kit, fidgeting in his seat a little. "I'm just not used to sitting around doing nothing. It's been almost six months since we put an end to Kabai Sengh and his brotherhood, and I haven't put on the Phantom costume since."  
  
"Is that necessarily a bad thing?" asked Diana. "Maybe there just isn't anymore evil in the world left to be fought. Maybe this is the world's way of telling us that it's okay to be happy."   
  
Diana was being absolutely serious, and the look she sent Kit's way was enough to melt his heart, but not enough to wipe away centuries of tradition and family obligation. "I wish that were true, but we both know that it's not. Evil does and always will exist. That's not the problem, Diana," said Kit, being just as serious. "The problem is that I'm here instead of out there looking for it."  
  
"Damn it. I hate it when you're right," said Diana, turning away to regain her composure. It was the most ladylike movement Kit had ever seen her make, and it was a sure sign that she was really upset. "I was told to keep this a surprise, but Uncle Dave is planning to make an announcement tonight. He's going to offer you a job as a reporter for his newspaper, make you an international correspondent."  
  
Kit's initial reaction was that he didn't need a job since the family fortune was more than sufficient to finance several small countries. Then it dawned on him that such a position would be the perfect cover for his activities as the Phantom.  
  
Before he could thank her, his heart was stabbed yet again by the expression on her beautiful face, a look that said she wouldn't be going with him this time. No longer knowing what to say, he went to her, pulled her to him, and thanked her with a deep and passionate kiss.  
  
The servants did their best to ignore them.  
  
***  
  
Berlin: SS Headquarters  
  
The young guard snapped to attention as a superior officer made ready to enter the room whose entryway he monitored. Captain von Röhm was expected and not a man who liked to be kept waiting. Snapping his right hand forward and clicking his heels, he yelled the standard greeting with great fervor. "Heil Hitler!"  
  
Captain Werner von Röhm responded with the same words and gesture, applied much more casually than the guard who stood before him, the nonchalant act of a man who knew his loyalty would never, ever be questioned. Without even bothering to knock, he opened the door and entered the office.  
  
"Heil Hitler. Good morning, Captain. I trust you had a pleasant trip," said a man seated at the desk, not really interested in making such pleantries, but a man who continued to do so out of habit.   
  
"Heil Hitler. Yes, sir. Very pleasant," said von Röhm, who was one of the few officers that the man before him trusted completely. And Heinrich Himmler trusted almost no one.  
  
"Very good, Captain. I have a mission for you of the greatest importance," said Himmler, who passed a file of papers and documents into von Röhm's waiting hands. Quickly glancing over them, von Röhm's eyes widened as the significance of the significance of the secrets contained within the documents in his hands quickly dawned upon him.  
  
"And my mission is to recover this vessel?" asked von Röhm, who barely succeeded in keeping awe from creeping into his voice.   
  
"Exactly," said Himmler, standing up to emphasize the importance of the vessel that von Röhm was being assigned to find. "Your nautical experience and archaeological training make you the ideal candidate. You will be allowed to handpick the members of your team, but speed is of the essence, not to mention secrecy."  
  
"Then I shall leave immediately to form my unit, sir. Heil Hitler!" said von Röhm with more fervor than he had when he first entered theoffice, pride making his voice stronger.  
  
"Heil Hitler."  
  
***  
  
Los Angeles: Howard Hughes' Mansion  
  
The valet's eyes widened as Cliff helped his date climb out of his car. Jenny Blake was one of the most beautiful women in the world, and for some reason Cliff couldn't understand, she was his girl. Absolutely radiant in her Chanel evening gown, all eyes were drawn towards her, and to a lesser extent, the man with her.  
  
"Have I told you yet how beautiful you look tonight?" asked Cliff, who enjoyed watching the jaws of all the men they passed by drop in succession. He tugged awkwardly at the collar of the tuxedo he'd rented for the occasion, not really comfortable in anything other than his flight gear.  
  
"Only about a hundred times," said Jenny, "and I love you for it." She was very excited. Howard Hughes was as big a man in Hollywood as he was in aviation, and some of the most important people in show business would be at this party tonight. One of the servants led them to the dining room, where they were seated next to the host, Mr. Howard Robard Hughes, Jr.   
  
"Cliff! Jenny! Glad you could make it!" said Hughes, kissing Jenny on the cheek and shaking Cliff's hand. "If you don't mind, I'd like to talk to you privately later tonight after the party's over."  
  
"No problem," said Cliff, glad to do anything Hughes asked of him. As a general rule, he had no use for millionaires like most of the people at this party tonight, but Howard Hughes was the exception. A man to be reckoned with, he'd personally broken the world airplane speed record just three short years ago, and his film, "Hell's Angels" was still one of Cliff's favorites.   
  
Indeed, Hughes was planning to break the around the world speed record later that year in July. The party tonight was being held to wish him well as he began preparations for that journey.   
  
"Let me introduce you to some of the other guests this evening," said Hughes, who gestured towards the guests seated immediately around them at the table. "To my right are Mr. and Mrs. Martin Dies. Martin is a congressional representative for my home state of Texas."  
  
"To their right are Mr. Walter Disney, whose new animated film, 'Snow White and the Seven Dwarfs,' is still the talk of Tinsel Town, and his guest for the evening, Ms. Adriana Caselotti, the voice talent for Snow White in the same film. And to your left are seated Mr. and Mrs. David Selznick. David is an important producer in Hollywood who's working on a film adaptation of Margaret Mitchell's work," finished Hughes. "Ladies and gentlemen, may I present Mr. Cliff Secord and Ms. Jenny Blake."  
  
Jenny was more than pleased to be in such distinguished company, but Cliff just felt very out of place. "So what do you do?" asked Dies, who already knew everyone else at the table.  
  
Not certain how to respond, Cliff just sat there wondering what he should say so Hughes answered for him. "Cliff is one of the best and most daring young pilots in the business," he said, clapping him on the shoulder. "And Jenny is an extremely talented actress, the one I was telling you about, David."  
  
"Really?" said Selznick, who looked Jenny over more carefully with a producer's eye. Cliff didn't like it, and neither did Selznick's wife. Still, it was an aspect of working in Hollywood to which Jenny had become accustomed. "Then you'll have to help me out in my new film. I'm afraid Vivien Leigh has already been cast in the lead, but my production can only benefit from the addition of another actress as beautiful as yourself in one of the supporting roles."  
  
"Well, I thank you for the opportunity," said Jenny, who aspired to become as famous as Vivien Leigh one day and welcomed the opportunity to work with her in the same picture. "I've heard very good things about your 'Gone with the Wind' production, and I'd be honored to work with you."  
  
"Excellent!" responded Selznick. "Here's my card. Just contact my office and tell them that I sent you."  
  
"You're making a film version of that book by Margaret Mitchell?" asked Mrs. Dies, trying not to look shocked. "Are you certain that's an appropriate subject for something that will be seen by millions of viewers? I read the book, and certain scenes were of questionable taste. I'd almost say that they were un-American."  
  
"And I suppose that's something that the wife of the head of the House Un-American Activities Committee would know," said Selznick with some irritation. Freedom of expression was very important to him, besides which, he'd already started production.  
  
"No offense, Mr. Selznick, but one particular event in the novel could be misinterpreted to mean that women desire to be... raped," she finished with some embarassment.  
  
"Well, I'm fairly certain that most Americans are too intelligent to fall for such a misconception," said Mrs. Selznick in defense of her husband although she actually shared some of Mrs. Dies misgivings.  
  
"House Un-American Activities Committee?" asked Cliff, trying to change the subject. "What's that?"  
  
"It's a Committee set up by Congress to investigate Nazi activities here in the United States," said Hughes, thankful for Cliff's surprisingly tactful intervention in what could have turned into a heated argument. "Martin is in charge of it."  
  
"Nazi activities?" asked Cliff, a look of surprise taking over his features. "That's good to hear. It's about time the government didsomething to put an end to their spy network here."  
  
"Well, to be perfectly honest, I'm not sure the Nazis are really a threat to the United States," said Dies, snapping his fingers for more champagne. "Personally, I believe that communism is a much bigger threat. In fact, the 'New Deal' proposed by Roosevelt smacks of communist policies, and I refuse to support it."  
  
Incredulous, Cliff just stared at Dies, wondering whether he was a Nazi spy like Neville Sinclair or just stupid. "Are you telling me you think Nazis aren't dangerous? That you're going to ignore them and investigate communism instead?!"  
  
"Please calm yourself, Mr. Secord," said Disney, who shared Dies' feelings on this matter. "The Nazis aren't a threat to America. They're just trying to improve the state of Germany following the depradations forced upon them following the last war. And judging by their success, I'd say there's much to admire about them."  
  
Smiling, Dies picked up his wine glass and clinked it against Disney's in thanks for his support. Indeed, he was a politician through and through, and Disney was an important ally.  
  
However, Hughes, who knew better, decided to change the subject quickly before Cliff started speaking his mind more forcefully. "Gentlemen, please, let's not discuss politics. This is supposed to be a celebratory occasion."  
  
At these words, Cliff calmed himself, and Dies stood to raise a toast in Hughes' honor. "To a safe and successful flight," he said as glasses of champagne were raised in Hughes' honor all the way down the table. "Cheers."  
  
"Cheers!"  
  
***  
  
Later that evening, Cliff went off to speak with Hughes in his private den as he'd requested earlier. "Sorry about my little outburst earlier," said Cliff as he loosened his collar and pulled off his tie. "I just couldn't believe how naive those guys were, especially that Disney guy. Politicians I expect to be ignorant. After all, they're the people the feds work for."  
  
"Nonsense. If I'd have gone through what you had with Sinclair, I might have done the same thing," said Hughes, lighting himself a cigar. "Actually, that's kind of what I wanted to talk to you about. Some federal agents contacted me earlier this week, asking me to recommend a skilled pilot for an important mission overseas. Here, take a look at this letter," he continued, passing Cliff an envelope.  
  
"What is it?" asked Cliff, opening the envelope and looking over its contents.  
  
"It's a letter from Charlie Lindbergh to Joe Kennedy. He's our ambassador to Britain. Charlie's been hiding from the press in Europe after... you know... what happened to his kid," said Hughes, coughing into his hand, uncomfortable with the topic.  
  
"Yeah, the kidnapping,,, and the murder. I really felt for him when it happened," said Cliff. "Wow. It looks like he's been pretty busy. Surveys of British, German, and Soviet airpower?" he asked.  
  
"Yeah, Charlie's still a popular guy in Europe. All of the great pilots in Europe were more than happy to give him a tour, even the Germans," said Hughes, taking a drag on his cigar. "As you can see, he doesn't think the Brits stand a chance in a war in Europe, even with American aid."  
  
"Well, I'd think Lindbergh would know," said Cliff, who'd finished reading the letter. "My gut reaction is to believe what a famous pilot like Lindbergh has to say."  
  
"Unfortunately, most of the people in Congress have had that same reaction," said Hughes, shaking his head. "Listen, Charlie's a good guy, but he tends to think too much of military traditions, and the Germans have that in spades. He may not be looking at things objectively."  
  
"Alright, I'll take your word for it," said Cliff, shrugging his shoulders, "but what does that have to do with me?"  
  
"I want you to re-evaluate what Lindbergh had to say so that I can write a report to Congress that counters what Charlie has to say," said Hughes, looking Cliff in the eyes.  
  
"You mean in Europe?" asked Cliff, dumbfounded. "Why me? I'm no spy. Hell, I'm not even sure where Europe is!" he exclaimed.  
  
"And that's exactly why I want you to go," said Hughes, chuckling. "You're the last person that the Germans would expect to be spying on them. You know planes inside and out, and you're a good man, a loyal American if ever there was one!"  
  
Walking upto Cliff, Hughes put a hand on his shoulder before he continued. "Look, Cliff, the government's putting together a crew to spy on the Germans and let us know what they're upto. They need a pilot, and they asked me to recommend one. I'd like that pilot to be you. You know the Germans have their eyes set on America, and we've got to prove that to Congress. Your country needs you. I need you. What do you say?"  
  
"What can I say?" asked Cliff, who'd been raised on stories about Sgt. York and other war heroes. And he wasn't about to let either his country or Howard Hughes down.  
  
"Where do I sign up?"  
  
***  
  
End of Indiana Jones and the Golden Age #02  
  
***  
  
Dave's Homepage  
  
http://home.hawaii.rr.com/shaxberd/ 


	3. The Phantom of the Gala

*************************  
  
"The Phantom of the Gala"  
  
*************************  
  
INDIANA JONES AND THE GOLDEN AGE #03  
  
Written by D. David Lee  
  
Edited by Tommy Hancock  
  
The YesterYear Fan Fiction Group acknowledges that names, concepts, and images of characters used here and ALL related characters may be owned by others and that said owners retain complete rights to said characters. These names, concepts, and images are used WITHOUT permission for NO PROFIT, but rather a strong desire to peer into the potential these characters have in a combined setting. This also acknowledges that original concepts presented here are the intellectual property of the author.  
  
***  
  
June, 1938  
  
The smoke-filled meeting room was cast in shadow as plans were made for the big job. Benny Zephro was next in line to inherit the title of head of the Zephro crime family and become the Boss of Bosses of the New York Syndicate. Less than a year had passed since his two brothers, Ray and Charlie Zephro, had been destroyed by Xander Drax and his ruinous obsession with the Sengh Brotherhood.  
  
Faith in the Zephro line had been shattered by these failures, and it was time for Benny to live upto his family name and restore that faith, not to mention his rightful place at the head of the syndicate. "So we're all set, boys? Everybody know what to do?"  
  
"Sure, Boss," said Vinnie, the largest specimen amongst the ranks of his hired muscle. "It don't take no genius to figure out how to run a simple heist." He had an odd habit of shifting the muscles in his shoulders while he talked that was quite distracting.  
  
"This ain't no dime store, boys. Some of the richest people in town are gonna be at this here shindig, and I don't want any foul ups. We pull this off, and it'll be big news on every newspaper in the country. The other crime bosses won't have no choice but to gimme the respect I deserve."  
  
Taking a drag out of his cigar, Benny Zephro chuckled dramatically, smiling at no one in particular. Soon he would have what always should have been his.  
  
***  
  
New York: The Palmer Estate [Afternoon]  
  
"I want those place settings absolutely perfect. Be sure not to seat the Buchanans next to the Wilsons. They just haven't gotten along since that Gatsby incident. And did you remember to order more flowers? The presentation just won't be perfect without some more orchids..." said Lily Palmer, fully in control of a veritable army of servants.  
  
Diana watched her mother with a complex combination of awe, admiration, and chagrine as she herself had little use for such pompous social gatherings, but never failed to be impressed by their grandeur and elegance.  
  
"And how is the Field Marshall doing?" asked Kit, sidling up behind his girlfriend to whisper in her ear. "No mutinies or court martials, yet?"  
  
"Are you kidding?" asked Diana, turning to offer Kit a smile and accept a light kiss on the cheek. "If Kabai Sengh had been half as commanding and organized, we would never have defeated him."  
  
Chuckling, Kit led Diana away from all the hustle and bustle, knowing that the situation was well in hand under the direction of Diana's mother. "I certainly wouldn't want her as an enemy."  
  
Punching Kit playfully in the side, Diana smiled and rested her head against Kit's shoulder as he wrapped his arm around her waist. Lily Palmer took a short moment to watch them go. The wealthy doyenne didn't approve of her daughter's desire to travel and wasn't at all certain that this Kit Walker was someone she approved of as a future son-in-law. After all, Jimmy Wells, who had always been taken with her daughter, traveled in much more impressive social circles.  
  
Indeed, she knew very little about Mr. Walker or his family, other than the fact that her daughter seemed to have eyes only for him and that her brother-in-law considered him a young man of great promise. Still, he was not nearly as well-connected as Jimmy Wells, who had always been very enamored of her daughter. Even so, Lily had yet to form an opinion, but in the final analysis, her approval would most certainly be difficult to win.  
  
***  
  
New York: The Palmer Estate [Evening]  
  
Limousine after limousine pulled into the driveway of the Palmer Estate as the annual gala event began. Famous socialites the world over arrived to pay their respects and mingle with the best and brightest of the social elite. Most were successful businessmen and their wives, but some few were celebrities or academicians of note.  
  
"Dr. Henry Jones, Senior, Dr. Marcus Brody, and Dr. Henry Jones, Junior," announced the servant at the door as three elegantly-dressed gentlemen walked in. Both Marcus and Indy's father had chosen to wear traditional, dark tuxedos whereas Indy sported a white-jacketed tuxedo instead, something he'd picked up during his last trip to Shanghai.  
  
"Good evening! I'm so glad that you could make it to our little soiree," said Lily, who always made a point of personally greeting every guest as soon as he or she arrived. Indeed, she took great pride in being the perfect host.  
  
"Not at all," said Marcus, kissing her hand in gentlemanly fashion. "It's the perfect opportunity to thank you personally for your contributions to the museum over the years, which have been more than generous."  
  
Indy's father repeated Marcus' gesture, also kissing the lady's hand. "And it just wouldn't do to turn down the invitation of so gracious a lady." Gesturing towards Indy, he continued, "I believe you are also familiar with my son?"  
  
Indy kissed the lady's hand as well, as his father and Marcus had. Slightly uncomfortable, as he always was at events like this but especially so in his father's presence, he half expected her to ruffle his hair as if he were still a boy, ten years of age. "Thank you for having us, Mrs. Palmer." He resisted the sudden urge to put his hands in his pockets and shuffle his feet.  
  
"So you're the famous archaeologist I've heard so much about," said Lily, doing her best to be charming. "Where will your next excavation be taking place?"  
  
"Actually, I'm going to be doing a tour of archaeological sites throughout Europe on behalf of the London museum," said Indy. "I'm still in the middle of forming my team, but I should be well underway by next month."  
  
"Oh, really?" asked Lily, extremely intrigued. "You know, I think Kit Walker would be an excellent addition to your team. He's a trained engineer with a masterful knowledge of folklore. I think it would do the boy some good to see more of the world."  
  
"Really? Well, I'll be sure to talk to him about it," said Indy, trying to be polite.  
  
"Good. Sometimes that boy acts like he was raised on an island of primitives. A broader perspective is just what he needs," said Lily, all the time thinking that her daughter needed some time away from Kit.  
  
Still smiling graciously, Lily Palmer excused herself as the next guest to arrive was announced. Marcus and Brody left Indy to mingle with the older crowd, and Indy made his way to the open bar, ordering himself a vodka martini. He nearly spit it out when the next guest was announced.  
  
"Chattar Lal, the Prime Minister to Zalim Singh, the Maharajah of Pankot Palace in India." A severe-looking man impeccably dressed in a black tuxedo, the Thuggee cult member who had tried to have Indy killed about three years ago.  
  
"Hey, buddy, you alright?" asked the bartender, who looked at Indy strangely.  
  
Coughing into his hand, Indy indicated that he was alright. He also tried to ignore the distracting way that the huge bartender kept shifting his shoulder muscles as he talked.  
  
***  
  
"Quite a turnout, wouldn't you say?" asked Dave Palmer, Diana's favorite uncle. "I guess it's true what they say. No one would dare not attend one of Lily's parties," he continued, carefully looking about to make sure that his sister-in-law wasn't within hearing distance.  
  
Diana and Kit both chuckled in response, also keeping a wary eye out. "And people say that conspicuous consumption is going out of style," said Diana, looking about at all the famous personages gathered in her uncle's home.  
  
Trying to spot a familiar face, she finally noticed Dr. Indiana Jones, who was speaking with an Indian gentleman at the far side of the room, making their way towards the historical wing. "Uncle Dave, who's that Indian gentleman?" she asked, indicating the man in question.  
  
Uncle Dave wracked his brain for a minute or two until Jimmy Wells piped in, snapping his fingers as he came up with a name. "That's Chattar Lal, the Prime Minister of some place in India. He's here to oversee the loan of some artifacts to the Museum of Natural History. My mother is handling the project," said Jimmy, who was still trying to impress Diana in any way he could.  
  
"No social gathering would be complete without a few foreign dignitaries, I suppose," said Kit, who'd already met more barons and duchesses this evening than he ever had before. "I wonder how Indy knows him..."  
  
***  
  
"Greetings, Dr. Jones," said Mr. Lal, who stood at rigid attention as he addressed Indy. Alone in the historical wing, they were finally able to speak to each other in private. "I had hoped I would be able to meet with you during my brief visit to your country."  
  
"I'm afraid you have me at a disadvantage," said Indy, trying not to look too uncomfortable. Turning away to admire the antiquities that were part of David Palmer's private collection, his gaze passed by several primitive weapons of war, including a bullwhip of Spanish design. "You see, I thought you were dead."  
  
"Try not to look so distressed, Dr. Jones. Not all deaths are permanent, and the expression on your face plainly betrays your thoughts," said Lal, who apparently bore Indy no malice.  
  
"Does that mean you're not here to kill me?" asked Indy, the hint of a smile starting to creep up around the corners of his mouth.  
  
"Dr. Jones, I bear you no hatred, and neither do the Thuggee. We are an ancient culture, and for thousands of years, we have protected India in the service of Kali. Mola Ram was a mad priest, willing to destroy his own people in the name of the goddess. Indeed, I am quite grateful for your assistance in ending his terrible reign."  
  
Somewhat stunned at this revelation, it took some time for Indy to stammer out a response. "You're... welcome," he said. "And I'm sorry about... what happened."  
  
"There is nothing to be sorry for," said Lal. "The black blood of Kali can pervert the will of any man, as you well know, but it can also preserve a man against injuries that would otherwise kill him. You have done no permanent injury to me, and your actions have earned you the blessings of both Kali and Shiva."  
  
"So good fortune follows me, does it?" asked Indy, who didn't feel very blessed considering what he'd been through during the past few years. Indeed, he sometimes thought he was besieged by bad luck.  
  
And just as these thoughts occurred to him, all hell broke loose.  
  
***  
  
Shortly after the last guest was announced, a man in a pin-striped suit nodded towards the largest bartender, who nodded back. He then pulled out a tommy gun and fired into the air. This action was followed by a number of ladies' screams as well as follow-up gunshots by other employees of the catering service that had been hired for the occasion. Two of these armed men moved to close the main doors, and others moved to guard the other exits and entrances to the main ballroom.  
  
"Ladies and gentlemen, please try not to be too alarmed! This is a robbery. Everyone, donn on the floor! If you will just remove your valuables and pass them to the men with the bags, no one will get killed! You have my word of honor," said Benny Zephro, holding a pistol in one hand and a smoking cigar in the other.  
  
The head butler had the presence of mind to attempt to call the police, only to find that the lines were dead, and lights in all rooms but the main ball room were suddenly cut.  
  
***  
  
"Was that gunfire? What happened to the lights?" asked Lal, who was unaccustomed to such situations and somewhat alarmed, as much as his British schooling would allow. "It sounds like there's a robbery in progress."  
  
"Don't worry," said Indy, taking off his jacket and moving to grab the whip from the Spanish collection. "It's just my blessings catching up with me. Sorry, I don't mean to be disrespectful, but this kind of thing happens to me all the time."  
  
"No need for apologies, Dr. Jones. I can understand your irritation."  
  
***  
  
Extremely chagrined by the fact that a robbery was taking place at one of her parties, Lily Palmer just knew that she would never be allowed to live it down. Left with few options, she did the only thing a woman of high society could do in such an embarassing situation. She fainted dramatically, right into young Jimmy Wells' arms.  
  
"Don't worry, mom, everything will be alright," said Diana, trying to rouse her mother back to consciousness.  
  
"I sincerely doubt that," said Uncle Dave, looking quite grim. "We've all seen their faces, and I doubt that this is just a robbery. That's Benny Zephro, Ray Zephro's younger brother. He's probably trying to take over his brother's position, and you don't do that by making stupid mistakes like letting witnesses live."  
  
Pulling Diana close, he tried to reassure her. "Still, from what I've heard, he might just be stupid enough to let us live or try to ransom us instead. Benny's not supposed to be very bright," he said under his breath. Looking around, he suddenly noticed that someone was missing. "Wait a minute. Where's Kit?"  
  
"Um... he left to grab something from the wine cellar," said Diana, crossing her fingers behind her back.  
  
"Well, I hope he knows well enough to stay hidden and out of sight," he said.  
  
"Don't worry, Uncle Dave, I'm sure Kit knows what to do."  
  
***  
  
Stepping as lightly as a jungle cat, Kit made his way upto his room. He berated himself silently for not wearing his Phantom costume underneath his clothes as he'd been taught, and he was certain he would never hear the end of it.  
  
"Situation looks grim, son. Armed criminals lie hidden at every turn, and over a hundred hostages are at risk. A difficult situation," said the apparition that was Kit's father. "But it might be a lucky break. I think you've become far too complacent since you stopped Kabai Sengh."  
  
"Yes, dad. Sorry, dad. I'll try to do better next time, dad," said Kit, trying to keep the edge out of his whisper. "But could you save the lecture for next time? I'm kind of busy right now."  
  
"Well, I can see that," said the apparition, trying not to sound too critical but not trying very hard. "Things are happening in the world, and it needs the Phantom now more than ever. Do you even have a plan of action, yet?"  
  
"I'm working on it, dad. Phase one is to get into costume," said Kit, just as he got to his room, only to find that there was someone in there rifling through his belongings, a man with a gun.  
  
Sneaking up behind him, Kit knocked him unconscious with a classic karate chop to the neck. He then proceeded to blindfold and gag the man, binding him with rope. Pulling his suitcase out of the closet, Kit proceeded to open the secret compartment and don his costume.  
  
Soon, the Phantom would be ready to deal with these invaders.  
  
***  
  
"Excuse me, sirs, but who are you and what are you doing here?" asked Lal, who seemed not at all perturbed by the guns being held by the two mobsters in the process of rolling up a portrait painted by Rembrandt.  
  
"Who the hell are you?" asked the smaller of the two, pointing his weapon in Lal's direction. Out of nowhere, the sound of a whip cracked, and the muzzlue of that mobster's weapon was pointed at the other. Shots were fired, and the larger mobster fell to the ground, dead. A sudden tug quickly disarmed the remaining mobster and Indy rushed forward out of the shadows, ramming a solid right cross into the man's glass jaw.  
  
"Well, that was exciting," said Lal, watching the man in the badly-tailored suit crumple to the floor.  
  
"And it's not over. That gunfire will attract more of them very soon, said Indy, grabbing one of the guns and handing the other to Lal. "I hope you're a good shot."  
  
"Of course. No British education would be complete without an understanding of firearms."  
  
***  
  
"My Lord, Henry, what in the world is happening now?" asked Marcus, having heard the gunfire coming from beyond the main ballroom. "Do you think it could be the police, coming to our rescue?"  
  
"No, Marcus, it's not the police," said Henry, trying not to be overheard by any of the hired guns present. "There was gunfire but no accompanying sound of sirens."  
  
"How dreadful," said Marcus, trying not to look too disappointed. "I hope nothing worse has come up. Do you think anyone was hurt?"  
  
"I hope not, old friend. If I'm not mistaken, whatever is going on out there, Junior has something to do with it."  
  
***  
  
"What the hell was that?!" asked Zephro, smacking Vinnie in the face but barely fazing him. "I thought I said no one was supposed to get shot until I said so!"  
  
"Sorry, Boss. The boys casing the rest of the joint must have run into trouble," said Vinnie, who was surprisingly apologetic for a man of his size. "It won't happen again."  
  
"Yeah, well go make sure. If the boys ran into trouble, there's a chance it's still out there," said Zephro, poking his index finger forcefully into Vinnie's chest. "Take some more boys and check it out."  
  
"Right, Boss," said Vinnie, whistling for most of Zephro's other men to join him, leaving only two behind with the Boss.  
  
***  
  
Bullet after bullet whizzed by Indy's head as a group of the mobsters held him pinned behind an overturned table with their covering fire. "Got any ideas how to get out of this, Lal?" asked Indy, who had already run out of bullets himself.  
  
"I am sorry, Dr. Jones, but I am also out of bullets, and as a result, out of ideas as well," replied Lal, somewhat dismayed that death should come for him so far from his homeland. "What we need is a miracle."  
  
"Call me, Indy. All my friends do," he said, clapping Lal on the shoulder. "And now would be a good time for Kali and Shiva to make good on those blessings you told me about."  
  
Out of nowhere, a purple blur streaked out of nowhere, diving for one of the fallen guns. He finished the dive in a roll that ended with him regaining his feet. Quickly, the purple-clad stranger fired at the guns being held by the remaining mobsters, rendering them useless.  
  
Closing his eyes and smiling, Chattar Lal took a moment to give thanks. "Ask and you shall receive. Is this not correct, Indy?"  
  
Appropriately chagrined, Indy accepted the jibe graciously. He deserved it. Getting up quickly, he ignored the ridiculous appearance of the masked man in the purple costume and prepared to join the fray.  
  
"I am the Ghost Who Walks, the Man Who Cannot Die!" he said, gesturing at the mobsters imperiously. For their part, the mobsters seemed mesmerized by his words, hesitant to attack. That is, they were hesitant until Vinnie ordered them to attack.  
  
"Don't just stand there gawking! Get him!" yelled Vinnie, advancing on Indy as the rest of the boys charged the Phantom.  
  
"Why do the big ones always come after me?" asked Indy of no one in particular. Ducking Vinnie's first punch, Indy hammered him with three quick punches to the gut. Looking up at Vinnie's smiling face, he could see that his blows were having no effect. "Uh oh..." he said as Vinnie's meaty fist came slamming into his face, knocking him to the floor and across the room.  
  
Seeing stars, Indy tried to shake the cobwebs from his brain as Vinnie advanced. Off to the side, he saw the self-proclaimed Phantom dodging blows left and right, apparently using a combination of karate and jujitsu to belay his opponents. Indy was surprised by how well this Phantom was doing against so many, but he was even more surprised to see Chattar Lal jump on Vinnie's back, trying to strangle him.  
  
Enraged, Vinnie tried to shake Lal off, and Indy used the distraction to attack him with his whip, wrapping it around his legs. Pulling with all his might, Indy forced Vinnie onto his back, and by accident, right on top of Lal.  
  
"Ouch, that had to hurt," said Indy, wincing as he advanced. Straddling Vinnie, Indy started hammering him with left cross after right hook, slamming the man's head into Lal's unprotected midsection. Even Vinnie couldn't take that kind of punishment for long, and eventually, he was knocked out.  
  
"Lal, are you alright?" asked Indy, grabbing Vinnie's unconscious body and heaving with all his might to pull him off of his new ally.  
  
"No," said Lal, coughing and taking a deep breath. "But I will be. Just don't ask me if I'd ever do that again. How is our miraculous friend doing?"  
  
Looking up, Indy saw this Phantom person standing triumphant over a multitude of mobsters, carefully pulling his mask back into place. Apparently, it had been slightly loosened during the battle. Catching the briefest glimpse of his face, Indy whispered something silently, under his breath. "Kit?"  
  
***  
  
Back in the main ballroom, Benny Zephro and his remaining henchmen were becoming nervous and agitated. It sounded like a war was going on out there, but they didn't dare leave the large mass of people unguarded. Also, it didn't help that the marks were becoming agitated as well, wondering what was going on.  
  
"Everybody, shut up!" yelled Zephro, firing a shot or two in the air, enough to push an already frightened Mrs. Wells over the edge. Screaming, she ran for the double doors leading into the hall and Zephro ordered one of his henchmen to grab her and keep her from escaping. "Aaagh!!!"  
  
Zephro's flunky caught up with her just as she reached the doors, and at that moment, they burst open, revealing a man dressed scandalously in a skintight purple costume. "Aaagh!!!" screamed Mrs. Wells, even louder than before, and chaos erupted in the room.  
  
First, the Phantom leaped forward with a flying kick, easily knocking out the henchman that had been harassing Jimmy Wells' mother. Then, Benny Zephro took aim at the strange man in the purple underwear, only to have his gun ripped out of his hand by the strike of a whip. And finally, when the last henchman took aim at Indy, it was Indy's father and Marcus Brody who restrained his gun arm, forcing the man to fire harmlessly into the air, and Diana Palmer who balled her right hand into a fist to knock him out.  
  
***  
  
Very soon, all of the would-be criminals were properly restrained, and just as mysteriously as he had appeared, the Phantom was gone. The police arrived to take Zephro and his gang into custody, and all was once again right with the world.  
  
Lily Palmer was revived and taken to her room, and Diana did her proud by apologizing to all the guests, just as graciously as decorum dictated. Kit Walker was at her side, and out of the corner of his eye, he noticed Indy staring at him curiously from the far side of the room.  
  
But as soon as Kit was looking Indy's way, Indy was looking elsewhere, introducing his father and Marcus Brody to Chattar Lal, saying little about how they'd first met.  
  
A feeling of camaraderie swept throught the assemblage, and spirits were suddenly high. Tragically, however, the party had come to a most definite end.  
  
***  
  
End of Indiana Jones and the Golden Age #03  
  
***  
  
Dave's Homepage  
  
http://home.hawaii.rr.com/shaxberd/ 


	4. Across the Pond

*****************  
  
"Across the Pond"  
  
*****************  
  
INDIANA JONES AND THE GOLDEN AGE #04  
  
Written by D. David Lee  
  
Edited by Tommy Hancock  
  
The YesterYear Fan Fiction Group acknowledges that names, concepts, and images of characters used here and ALL related characters may be owned by others and that said owners retain complete rights to said characters. These names, concepts, and images are used WITHOUT permission for NO PROFIT, but rather a strong desire to peer into the potential these characters have in a combined setting. This also acknowledges that original concepts presented here are the intellectual property of the author.  
  
***  
  
France: Paris [July, 1938]  
  
It had taken only a few weeks for von Röhm to form and ready his strike team. A select group of junior SS officers, they had been the pride of the Hitler Youth. Not just soldiers, they were also scientists and scholars, each expert in a different field of expertise.  
  
First, there was young von Richthofen, his aviation expert. Indeed, there was no telling how far and wide his small team would have to travel to acquire their goal. He hailed from a most glorious bloodline, and he was performing as admirably as his pedigree would indicate, despite its illegitimacy.  
  
Second, there was Goeth. His family name was not nearly so famous as that of von Richthofen, but he had a keen mind as well as great ambition. Beyond that, he also had a singular bloodthirstiness, a taste for pain and suffering, that no other officer known to von Röhm could match.  
  
Third, there was von Strucker, a promising SS officer whose blood was as blue as that of von Richthofen's legendary father. An expert in the use of weapons, hand-to-hand combat, languages, and cryptography. Their intelligence expert, is loyalty to the Fatherland was beyond reproach.  
  
And last, but not least, there was Dommes. Older than the rest of his charges, he was also the highest ranking officer beneath him, already holding the rank of Oberleutnant zur See. Their expert on U-boat operations, von Röhm considered him the single most indispensable member of his team.  
  
Indeed, von Röhm had selected his team well. He was, in fact, quite proud of their accomplishments, but that did nothing to lessen his frustration at their inability to find the clues they were seeking so desperately. Indeed, this was the third such building they'd been forced to search so far.  
  
"It must be here! It has to be here!" yelled von Röhm, his gloved hands hurling books to the ground and smashing furniture with frightening ease. "Keep searching!"  
  
"I am sorry, Sir, but the documents we are searching for either aren't here or are too well-hidden to be found so easily," said Dommes clicking his heels. "The local authorities will be here soon, and we cannot allow our actions to be discovered. Our orders from Berlin are to operate in secrecy."  
  
Clearing the anger from his head, von Röhm reminded himself not to allow his frustration to get the better of him. Such furious outbursts had propelled several officers to prominence in Berlin, but those incidents had been few and rare exceptions to the rule.  
  
"You are right, Wilhelm," said von Röhm, putting his hand on the man's shoulder. He was a good officer, and he admired the courage it took to question a superior officer's orders. "We will leave immediately, going our separate ways, and meet at the Eiffel Tower at noon tomorrow."  
  
Silently, each of the five men von Röhm had hand-picked for this assignment nodded his understanding and left as discretely as he'd arrived. Pleased by their efficiency and professionalism, he was still disappointed by their failure. Still, this was hardly the end of their mission.  
  
Stepping over the body of a dead French guard, the recently promoted Colonel von Röhm left the building, an ominous smile on his face, leaving behind the disheveled remains of a once historic building and its contents. Still, it mattered not to him as he had no love for history that was not German.  
  
"No, this is hardly the end," he said aloud.  
  
***  
  
New York City: Airport  
  
The day was humid and the sun was hot as Indiana Jones stood on the airfield as the plane he'd been waiting for finally touched down. He had only been waiting a few minutes, but it felt like he'd been waiting for months. In a way, he had.  
  
The hatch was opened, and Indy carefully scrutinized each and every disembarking passenger, keeping an eye out for one passenger in particular. He had no idea what this pilot the feds had found for him would look like, but he was pretty sure he'd recognize him when he saw him.  
  
A number of men in suits made their way down the stairs, followed by women and children in their Sunday best, all of them smiling. Indy ignored them completely, his eyes drawn immediately to the man in the aviator jacket who was looking as out of place, disgruntled, and uncomfortable as he possibly could. 'That's my man,' he thought to himself.  
  
Taking a few steps to meet him halfway, Indy extended his hand. "Cliff Secord?" he asked.  
  
"Huh? Yeah, that's right..." said Cliff, looking confused, but taking Indy's hand never the less. "And you are?"  
  
"Dr. Indiana Jones," said Indy, smiling, and trying to size up the man who was the latest addition to his team. "But my friends call me Indy."  
  
"Dr. Jones?" asked Cliff, looking over the man in the fedora. "Sorry, it's just that you don't look like any college prof I've ever known, not that I've ever known any. And my friends call me Cliff," said Cliff, smiling back.  
  
Indy watched as Cliff tried to make himself more comfortable, using his sleeve to wipe the sweat from his brow and trying to loosen up the stiffness in his shoulders. "Rough flight, Cliff?" he asked, somewhat concerned, thinking that a pilot should be more comfortable with travel by air.  
  
"Let's just say I'm used to flying them, not riding them," said Cliff. "I guess I'm just not comfortable in anything other than the pilot's seat."  
  
Indy smiled. "Then maybe we'd better get you into that pilot's seat as soon as possible."  
  
***  
  
On the far side of the airfield, Kit Walker and Diana Palmer were locked in each other's embrace, trying very hard not to say goodbye. Indeed, time seemed to stand still for them, their hearts beating practically as one, but eventually their lips parted.  
  
"Would it do any good if I asked you to be careful?" asked Diana, her hand lingering in his.  
  
"The Phantom is always careful," replied Kit jokingly, taking hold of Diana's other hand as well to keep her from leaving. "Besides, I'm more worried about you. Every minute I'm gone, your mother will be trying to marry you off to Jimmy Wells."  
  
"You just leave Mother to me," said Diana, laughing. "She's much too powerful for you. Just remember to write me every week. Otherwise, I might just decide to take Jimmy up on one of his offers," she finished.  
  
Still, both of them knew that could never happen. Even if high society hadn't been informed yet, Diana Palmer and Kit Walker were already engaged. He'd asked her hand in marriage when he'd revealed to her that he was the Phantom, and she had silently accepted when she'd kept his secret.  
  
From outside the hangar, they could both hear the sound of a car pulling up. Realizing that they wouldn't be alone much longer, Kit bowed in gentlemanly fashion, pulling her hand upto his lips, kissing it on top of the bandages still wrapped around her knuckles.  
  
"Until we meet again, Mrs. Walker."  
  
***  
  
"Um, is there any particular reason why we're just waiting out here?" asked Cliff, eager to get in the hangar and check out the plane he was going to be flying.  
  
Finally seeing Diana Palmer's car pulling away from the rear of the hangar, Indy just smiled. "No reason," he said. "C'mon. Let me introduce you to your teammate and new best friend."  
  
Walking into the hangar, Indy could see that Kit's attention was still focused on the rear entrance from which Diana had just departed. Luckily, Cliff wasn't offended as his attention was pretty much focused on the Ford Trimotor parked in the hangar.  
  
"Ahem," coughed Indy, trying to bring both men's attentions back to introductions. "Kit Walker, I'd like you to meet Cliff Secord. He's going to be our pilot on this little jaunt of ours. Cliff, this is Kit Walker, he's going to be our... well, let's just say he's a man of many talents. Get to know each other. You'll be spending a lot of time together."  
  
Indy then took his leave to find a phone and make some last-minute calls. Now alone with each other, Kit and Cliff looked each other up and down as they shook. Kit wasn't really sure what to make of Cliff as he'd never had much in common with working-class Americans. For his part, Cliff never felt comfortable around rich people with only one noteworthy exception, and the way Kit was dressed left no doubt in his mind that he was rich. Well, richer than he was, anyway.  
  
"Nice to meet you, Cliff," said Kit. "You're from California, right?"  
  
"Yup. Los Angeles," answered Cliff. "Sorry, but do you mind if we continue this discussion while I check out the plane?"  
  
"Not at all," said Kit, gesturing toward the rather large aircraft. "Every good pilot checks out his plane before taking off."  
  
"You a pilot?" asked Cliff, smiling genuinely for the first time since he'd left his home state. "What do you fly?"  
  
"Nothing like this, I'm afraid," answered Kit. "Mostly just old World War I fighter planes. Fokkers and stuff like that. Might come in handy if we ever have to do any cropdusting on this mission."  
  
"Heh." Laughing, Cliff checked the various lines, cables, and pressure gauges. "Don't sell yourself short. What I wouldn't give to be able to fly one of those babies..."  
  
"Something wrong?" asked Kit as Cliff's voice trailed off.  
  
In response, Cliff just whistled low, scratching his head. "This is some plane. I was kind of disappointed to find I'd be flying a 'Tin Goose,' but this baby's had some impressive custom work done on it. Gun placements. Extra steel plating for bulletproofing. Damn, what does Indy think we're flying into here? A second world war?"  
  
***  
  
"Yes, Dad. No, Dad. Alright, Dad," said Indy, the phone pressed to his ear. Indy would never know or understand why fathers insisted on offering their sons unwanted advice about things they knew very little about. Granted, his father was an expert on many things, but international espionage wasn't one of them.  
  
"Look, Dad, I know what I'm doing, and I'm going to be careful. No, don't wake Marcus up. Let him sleep. Just tell him I said goodbye when he wakes up. And don't worry, I'll write as often as I can," said Indy, using his other hand to block out the sound of air traffic. "Yeah, I love you, too, Dad," he said finally, hanging up.  
  
Relieved that the conversation was finally over, part of Indy was sad that it had to end, knowing it would be some time before he heard his father's voice again. Stepping away from the phone booth, he signaled for the two federal agents to approach.  
  
"It's about time," said Gallagher, flexing his overly-built shoulders. "What's with this? I mean, does the Doc think we got nothing better to do than stand around while he yaks on the phone?"  
  
"Beats me," said Robinson, putting out his cigarette. "Anyway, it doesn't matter what we think. The higher-ups want Jones on this mission, and if he's willing to go traipsing off to Europe, then that's fine by me. The Cubs are going all the way this year, and I'm going to be here to see it."  
  
The two federal agents followed the famous archaeologist into the hangar, curious as to the nature of the team he'd assembled. As they walked in, Cliff and Kit were keeping busy by loading their luggage and equipment onto the plane.  
  
"That's what I like to see," said Indy. "My industrious team hard at work. Guys, these are the feds, Robinson and Gallagher. They're here to make sure we actually leave."  
  
In response, the two federal agents just stared daggers at Indy, but otherwise ignored him. It was obvious that the good doctor was not very fond of the government, but that wasn't their concern. As much as they might dislike him, Dr. Jones was a known quantity with full government backing, and the same could be said of Cliff Secord, who had been recommended by Howard Hughes himself. Kit Walker, on the other hand, had no such support.  
  
"I'm surprised to see Mr. Walker so willing to get his hands dirty," said Robinson, trying to get a rise out of the man. He had no use for the idle rich, and what little information they did have on Kit Walker described him as something of a playboy socialite.  
  
"Well, actually, I'm not," said Kit, raising his hands and displaying that they were gloved, a mischievous smile on his face. "And no, I don't mind the occasional bit of manual labor as I like to keep fit and trim," he finished, patting his washboard stomach.  
  
Neither Robinson nor Gallagher was very pleased by the exchange, both of them having eaten far too many donuts during their careers to boast the same. Distrust was quickly turning into dislike.  
  
"That mouth of yours isn't going to do you much good against the Fuhrer, buddy," said Robinson, glaring at him.  
  
"I bet he doesn't even know who the Fuhrer is..." said Gallagher, trying to follow his partner's lead.  
  
"Isn't he the current leader of Nazi Germany?" asked Kit, trying to do the best impression he could of Jimmy Wells. "Terrible sense of style, I must say. You'd think the most feared despot in the world would be able to find a better barber, or at least a passable one."  
  
Seeing the angry visages of the two federal agents, both Indy and Cliff had difficulty hiding their amusement, and Cliff retreated to the interior of the plane.  
  
"Figures a pretty boy like you wouldn't care about nothing besides that stupid moustache of his," said Gallagher, raising a ham fist. "Hitler's dangerous, buddy!"  
  
"Hmm?" asked Kit, feigning disinterest. "Oh, yes, I've heard that his Charlie Chaplin impression is supposed to be most atrocious. Yes, he is a most dangerous man."  
  
From somewhere near the cockpit, raucous laughter could be heard and that was enough to coax a similar outburst from Indy. Kit's mouth widened into a smile, and the two feds finally realized that they were being played for fools.  
  
"Why you little..." began Gallagher, moving forward to teach Kit some manners as his partner tried to hold him back to no avail. Gallagher was a big man, easily weighing over two hundred and fifty pounds, and all steamed up, well... Robinson just found himself being dragged along.  
  
As Gallagher swung his meaty fist at Kit's jaw, the lithe young man just sidestepped the blow as casually as you please, extending his left foot to trip the much larger man. Spinning his arms with a pinwheel motion, Gallagher tried to regain his balance, but ultimately ended up falling on his face, Robinson collapsing on top of his back.  
  
Knowing full well what Kit was capable of, Indy had allowed the scene to happen, thinking that Gallagher, at least, could use a lesson in humility. Still, enough was enough.  
  
"Well, I hope you're satisfied," said Indy, going on one knee so he could talk to the feds face to face. "I don't care what reservations you might have. I told you at the start that I reserved the right to pick my own team, and Kit is on this team whether you like it or not. If he goes, then I go. Now, get that through your thick heads before they get cracked open."  
  
Picking themselves up and dusting themselves off, Gallagher and Robinson both turned menacing glares at Kit, and each would remember the slight that took place this day.  
  
"Just watch your back, Jones, and don't say we didn't warn you," said Robinson, prodding his partner in the direction of the hangar gate. For his part, Gallagher said nothing, but his face said that this incident was far from over as he stormed out, fuming.  
  
"Well, that was entertaining," said Indy, who'd enjoyed the entire spectacle, but nevertheless found himself wondering for the first time whether having the Phantom on his team was really such a good idea. He really didn't know that much about him. Or Cliff, for that matter. Even so, it seemed like they were both his kind of people.  
  
Clapping Kit on the side of the arm, Indy led him into the plane, taking one last look at the clear blue American sky before closing the hatch. Kit sat himself down in the navigator's position, and Indy took the co-pilot's chair. "We ready for takeoff?" he asked.  
  
"Whenever you are," said Cliff, still chuckling. Adjusting a few knobs, switches, and dials, Cliff got the plane's motors running and began taxiing onto the runway. The floor of the cockpit shook with the power of those engines, and Cliff found himself surprised by it.  
  
"Damn, Indy, how'd you get your hands on this baby?" asked Cliff, some awe registering in his voice. "According to the instruments, this plane can fly higher, faster, and farther than any other model in its class. Even Howard Hughes doesn't have anything like this."  
  
"Let's just say that the Ford name and I have a long personal history," said Indy, thinking that was a story for another time. Looking at the pilot's side window, he noticed a photograph taped to it, a celebrity photograph by all appearances, complete with an autograph.  
  
The photograph was of a beautiful woman with long dark hair, and the autograph read: "For Cliff. My boyfriend, my best friend, and my biggest fan. Keep flying high. Love, Jennifer Blake."  
  
"Wow. Is that your girl?" asked Indy, his eyes widening a bit.  
  
"Better believe it, boss," said Cliff, gunning the engines and getting ready for takeoff. "The most beautiful woman in all of Hollywood. Jealous?"  
  
"You better believe it," said Indy, letting out a wolf whistle. "Still, it's kind of comforting to know that my pilot is the luckiest man alive. Well, one of them," he continued, still having a clear image of Diana Palmer's beautiful face.  
  
"Well, which way are we headed?" asked Cliff, pulling back on the yoke and causing the plane to soar heavenward, becoming airborne.  
  
Leaning back in his chair, Indy crossed his hands behind his head, lowered his fedora over his eyes, and started to relax.  
  
"We're headed all the way to France, boys. Paris, to be exact. Some friends of mine at MI6 say there's been some unusual activities at historical sites in the city. Nothing's been taken, but they've been ransacked pretty heavily. I've got a sneaking suspicion that the Nazis might be responsible, out hunting for relics or artifacts."  
  
"What makes you say that?" asked Kit, puzzled as to what value such things would hold for a military regime.  
  
"Let's just say I know what I'm talking about and leave it at that. Trust me."  
  
***  
  
End of Indiana Jones and the Golden Age #04  
  
***  
  
Dave's Homepage  
  
http://home.hawaii.rr.com/shaxberd/ 


	5. Know Thy Enemy

****************  
  
"Know Thy Enemy"  
  
****************  
  
INDIANA JONES AND THE GOLDEN AGE #05  
  
Written by D. David Lee  
  
Edited by Tommy Hancock  
  
The YesterYear Fan Fiction Group acknowledges that names, concepts, and images of characters used here and ALL related characters may be owned by others and that said owners retain complete rights to said characters. These names, concepts, and images are used WITHOUT permission for NO PROFIT, but rather a strong desire to peer into the potential these characters have in a combined setting. This also acknowledges that original concepts presented here are the intellectual property of the author.  
  
***  
  
France: Paris [August, 1938]  
  
A well-dressed tourist was studying the Mona Lisa, wondering why she had no eyebrows. Several feet behind him, another tourist was taking photographs of that same portrait, and yet another was sketching that same famous painting. In point of fact, it was quite crowded, but no one paid that any mind as this particular section of the Louvre was frequently busy with such activity.  
  
For their own part, the SS officers serving under Captain von Röhm were starting to wonder about his choice of locations for rendezvous. Naturally, tourist attractions such as these were ideal meeting places. No one paid any attention to those tourists who tended to linger near them, but it still seemed to some of them as if the Captain were treating their mission like a vacation rather than a clandestine operation of the utmost importance.  
  
One by one, they all reported in, and for the most part, they all had bad news. No new leads to their objective had yet been acquired, and the men were starting to grow restless. Only young von Richthofen had anything new to report, and to him, it hardly seemed significant at all.  
  
"There was a minor disturbance at the airport this morning," whispered von Richthofen to von Röhm, making it seem all the while as if he were simply asking directions. "A group of Americans arrived at the airport, apparently led by someone with some standing in academic circles. He and his traveling companions were met at the airport by several famous French dignitaries, including some professors at the university and the president of the historical society."  
  
At this, von Röhm raised an eyebrow, wondering who this well-connected stranger might be. "Very curious," he said, opening up a map as if searching for something. "Have you any more details on this man or anyone in his party?"  
  
"They arrived in a Ford trimotor, and from the look of the engines, it made a non-stop flight from the Americas all the way to Paris," said von Richthofen, who was much more interested in the plane than in any of its passengers. Pulling out a notepad, he opened it to the page where he had written down the name of the senior American in question. "The head of the group was one Dr. Henry Jones, Jr. He had with him only two other Americans."  
  
Startled, von Röhm's eyes widened with recognition. "You know where he is? The faces of his companions?" he queried, forcing himself to remain calm.  
  
"I do," answered von Richthofen, wondering why this man interested the Captain so much.  
  
"Then show me where they are staying," said von Röhm, putting his map away, and smiling at von Richthofen as if making pleasant conversation. "I will follow Jones myself. We will take Wolfgang with us, and the two of you will each keep an eye on one of the good doctor's companions. Learn what you can, and report back to me. Is that clear?"  
  
"Very clear, sir!" exclaimed von Richthofen in a harsh whisper, barely able to keep from standing at attention and clicking his heels at seeing his commanding officer finally taking what seemed to be decisive action. Perhaps this Dr. Jones had the answers they sought to the current location of the artifact they had been sent to retrieve.  
  
***  
  
"Could I have some ketchup, please?" asked Cliff, looking at the unusually lean steak on his plate and wondering why there wasn't any fat or gristle.  
  
For his part, the waiter made a face as if he had been scandalized, turned up his nose, and stormed off.  
  
"What's his problem?" asked Cliff, picking at his food. "I said the magic word, didn't I? And what's with all the wine? Haven't they ever heard of beer in this country?"  
  
Kit and Indy just looked at each other and sighed, doing their best not to roll their eyes. They'd touched down in Paris only a few hours ago, and they were already settled in at a hotel along the banks of the Seine. However, settling Cliff into life in Paris wouldn't be quite so simple.  
  
"This is France," said Kit, trying to be patient. "The people here take their cuisine seriously, and ordering ketchup to go with a filet mignon is tantamount to the gravest of insults. Especially to the Parisians."  
  
"Besides which, there aren't that many Americans who travel abroad," said Indy, leaning back in his chair. "It's important that you try and make a good impression. It's like you're a diplomat representing your country. People will assume that all Americans are like you."  
  
"Seriously?" asked Cliff, taking a bite of his steak and grimacing when he realized that it wasn't burnt the way he liked it. "C'mon, we saved their asses during the war, didn't we? I mean, it's not like they're going to think all Americans are rude and have no taste just because of me."  
  
"Well... I suppose not," agreed Indy, who did find the idea a bit far-fetched. "Still, you should try to see things from the local point of view instead of complaining just because it isn't what you're used to. Got it?"  
  
"Gotcha, boss," said Cliff, examining the label on the wine bottle, noting that it was a Chateau Lafitte Rothschild 1926. "Hey, this stuff isn't even new. It's like, twelve years old already. Don't they have anything fresher?"  
  
In unison, Kit and Indy sighed yet again.  
  
"Well, I've got things to do and people to see," said Indy, standing up and adjusting his hat. "I'll pay the check on the way out. You two have some fun and get a feel for the city. Try not to get lost."  
  
That said, Indy took his leave and made sure to apologize to the waiter on his way out, leaving a somewhat generous tip.  
  
***  
  
Several hours later, Indy was walking through Montmartre in search of a particular café run by an old acquaintance. The area had yet to lose its quaint, village charm, which brought back a number of memories for from the days when he had been stationed in the city during the war.  
  
Still a haven for artists of all types, the Bohemian atmosphere of this part of Paris still appealed to him on many levels. Allowing a moment of nostalgia to sink in, Indy smiled and continued on his way. He finally found the café that he was looking for near the Sacre Coeur church.  
  
Overlooked by most Parisians, this particular café was noteworthy for two things. The first was that it could boast a very talented piano player who was practically the toast of the town. The second was that it was owned by an American with a very dubious reputation.  
  
Smiling, Indy decided to make a grand entrance, wanting to give the owner a hard time. "I'm looking for a man named Rick Blaine!" exclaimed Indy as he stepped into the Café Americain. "He's wanted for crimes too numerous to mention in the State of New York, and I'm here to bring him in!"  
  
All of the occupants took notice. The patrons raised their eyebrows and started whispering amongst themselves. Sam, the piano player, stopped in mid-performance, and the bartender froze in mid-pour. The man in question, Rick Blaine, just looked towards the entrance at the fool who would dare challenge him in his own place and smiled, but the singer, a woman, shrieked and reacted violently, drawing all eyes to her.  
  
Indy couldn't place her at first, but recognition dawned on him quickly when she stormed towards him and slapped him in the face as hard as she could, knocking him off his feet and onto the floor. Her name was Willie Scott.  
  
"Stop threatening the bosses of the places I sing at!" screeched Willie, storming up the stairs to her rooms.  
  
"I see you still have a way with women," said Rick, chuckling as he helped Indy up off the floor. "I knew she could sing, but I had no idea she could slap a man off his feet."  
  
"Well, she's had practice," grunted Indy, massaging his bruised cheek.  
  
***  
  
Only one of the many tourist attractions in Paris really interested Cliff Secord, and he'd made a beeline for it as soon as dinner was over. In fact, he was feeling a bit queasy due to a combination of the difficulties he'd had digesting the rich food and the speed with which he'd made his way towards the Salon Aeronautique.  
  
Howard Hughes had recommended the place as something not to be missed, and Cliff was not disappointed. Awed by the fantastic pieces of aviation history, he lingered in front of one site that interested him in particular. Lost in thought, he failed to notice the blonde gentleman that had stepped up next to him.  
  
"Fascinating, is it not?" asked the stranger, gazing upwards at the biplane jet that had been invented by Henri Coanda almost three decades ago in 1910. "The idea of a jet propulsion system for planes is quite intriguing, but it also, sadly, quite impractical."  
  
"You think so?" asked Cliff, somewhat amused by the stranger's comments. He appeared to be a tourist like himself although somewhat less informed as to the progress that had been made in jet propulsion technology. "Well, as a pilot, I see great potential in it. Cliff Secord, from America."  
  
"Rolf Christiansen, from Switzerland," said young von Richthofen, taking the American's proferred hand in his. He couldn't help thinking how easy it would be to conquer these Americans if they were all as easily duped as this one before him. "So you are a pilot? Then surely you must see that a plane becomes more difficult to maneuver the faster it goes. Don't you think flying is dangerous enough as it is?"  
  
"Maybe, but speed can be an asset as well a hindrance," said Cliff, thinking about some of the plans that Howard had mentioned. "People will pay more to get places quicker, and travel flights aren't all that dangerous."  
  
"Perhaps, but the true purpose of flight is not travel, but combat," said von Richthofen, hands folded behind his back. "And in combat, maneuverability is the key to victory."  
  
Cliff couldn't help thinking that these last words were spoken in a manner more akin to that of a seasoned combat pilot than a Swiss tourist. In point of fact, these words had originally been spoken by von Richthofen's father, the Red Baron, who had become a legend during his own lifetime during the war.  
  
"Do you fly?" asked Cliff, suddenly wary of this Mr. Christiansen but trying hard not to show it.  
  
"I am familiar with the process," said von Richthofen, the false humility leaving a foul taste in his mouth. After all, had he not been trained personally by his father, the greatest pilot ever produced by the nation that had invented aerial combat? Flying was in his blood, and as far as he was concerned, this American commoner would never truly understand what it meant to be a pilot.  
  
"Well, maneuverability isn't an issue if you can reduce the bulkiness of the plane," said Cliff, crossing his arms over his chest. "I've heard rumors that the Germans are working on a jet plane as we speak."  
  
For his part, von Richthofen struggled to keep from showing any signs of surprise or dismay. How could this American know anything of the Heinkel Project? It was impossible, but the facts were plain that he did know. It could only mean that he was a pilot of considerable skill and station. Otherwise, he would not have been kept aware of such significant intelligence.  
  
"I had not heard that," said von Richthofen, eyeing the American with renewed interest. To his surprise, he found himself hoping that they would have the opportunity to test their flying skills against each other before his mission was over. "Are you a scientist or something? How is it that you know so much about Coanda's theories and the progress being made in implementing them for practical purposes?"  
  
"Me? A scientist?" asked Cliff, laughing out loud. "Sorry, but that's the last thing I ever expected anyone to say. No, I'm just a pilot who happens to know people who know people."  
  
"Well, I must be off, but I will not be leaving Paris for some time," said von Richthofen. "I have enjoyed our conversation. Perhaps we shall meet again?"  
  
"Maybe we will," said Cliff, who couldn't help thinking that there was something odd about Christiansen. It wasn't anything that he could rationalize but more of a gut feeling. Still, any good pilot knows to trust his instincts. "Maybe we will."  
  
***  
  
Unlike Cliff, Kit had visited Paris several times before. Indeed, his first trip there, which he'd made in the company of his father, was the one that he remembered most fondly.  
  
When Kit had been only five years old, his father had been invited to take part in a fencing competition being held in France. It was one of the few times that young Kit had been able to watch his father in action, and he still treasured the memory. Tracking down the fencing academy at which that competition had taken place hadn't proved overly difficult.  
  
Watching the young fencers at practice, Kit's memories flashed back to his father's last match against a German fencer named von Strucker. An aristocrat by birth, this particular opponent had been extremely arrogant, but deservedly so, it seemed. His skill with the blade had been extraordinary, but ultimately, Kit's father had been victorious.  
  
From the far side of the sparring chamber, Wolfgang von Strucker was actually recalling the very same scene, but with considerably less pleasure. He had only been a boy then, but his youth had only made the sting of his father's defeat wound him even more deeply.  
  
Young Wolfgang had been extremely traumatized by the sight of his father's first failure. The man had been like a giant, the perfect German soldier and the epitome of Prussian nobility. Up until that day, his father had seemed all but invincible, and he had never learned to deal with the shame of being defeated by a nameless commoner.  
  
Surprised to find himself clenching his fists, von Strucker did what he could to forget about the past and concentrate on the task at hand, keeping an eye on this American, but the need to release his frustrations was too great. Seeing some spare sets of protective clothing and foils nearby, an idea came to him.  
  
Quickly donning the protective gear, von Strucker carried a second set along with two foils towards the American he had been sent to watch.  
  
"Excuse me, but you seem most intent upon the practice duels taking place," said von Strucker, presenting the second foil and suit of protective gear. "You watch with the eye of someone who knows his way with a foil, and I am in need of a sparring partner. Would you do the courtesy of indulging me?"  
  
Under normal circumstances, Kit would probably have refused, but standing in this place, his memories being what they were, the idea of a practice bout appealed to him greatly.  
  
"I think I'd enjoy that," said Kit, quickly donning the gear and testing the balance of the foil. "Kit Walker, at your service."  
  
"Wolfgang," replied von Strucker, stepping backwards into one of the sparring lanes. Once his opponent was ready, he saluted with his foil sharply and expertly, and his sparring partner responded in kind.  
  
Kit had been trained practically from birth in the use of all forms of weapons, including the art of epee, but von Strucker had been trained almost exclusively in the various arts of fencing prior to his military training amongst the elite of the Hitler Youth.  
  
"En garde!" exclaimed von Strucker, beginning the match and striking with the speed and precision of a master fencer, but Kit parried the blow with equal skill.  
  
Strike. Parry. Counterstrike. Riposte. On and on it went with neither opponent able to gain a solid hit. So amazing was the level of skill being demonstrated that the other students put a halt to their own matches, pausing to enjoy the spectacle.  
  
As for Kit and von Strucker, they were each extremely surprised to find the other so skilled. Normally, a fencing match was over in a matter of seconds, but their bout had continued for almost fifteen minutes. Neither man was tired, but each knew it was only a matter of time.  
  
Seeing an opportunity, von Strucker 'accidentally' allowed the tip of his foil to graze Kit's unprotected leg, distracting him long enough strike a winning blow into his chest. The movement was so quick that none of the onlookers noticed, and his victory was cheered by all those gathered there.  
  
"A good match, Monsieur Walker," said von Strucker, pleased by his victory but unhappy with the manner in which he'd achieved it. He'd been trained to seek victory by any means, but his personal preference was to achieve it on equal terms. "Perhaps we might have another match at some future date."  
  
"Perhaps," said Kit, ignoring the mild injury to his leg. He'd already drawn too much attention to himself as it was, and he didn't want to draw more by accusing his opponent of cheating. Still, if there were another match, he would be ready for this Wolfgang's more dishonorable maneuvers. "Perhaps."  
  
***  
  
"Of all the women I've ever been with in the world, why did it have to be Willie?" asked Indy as he sat at the bar, hunched over a shot of whiskey.  
  
"C'mon, none of that," said Rick, ready to pour his old friend another shot as soon as he needed it. "You'd never catch me crying into a drink over some damned woman, even one as pretty as Miss Scott. Isn't that right, Sam?"  
  
"If'n you say so, boss," said Sam, busily retuning his piano. He knew well enough that if Rick did have a weakness besides his own conscience, it was probably his fascination with women. Still, he also knew that was the last thing he should say in this situation. "But sure enough, I ain't never seen Miss Willie so riled up before."  
  
"That's true," confirmed Rick, taking a drag on his cigarette. "The songstress is a real sweetheart. What'd you do to get her so upset?"  
  
"Nothing much," said Indy, downing a shot of whiskey in a single gulp. "Just got her fired from a singing gig in Shanghai when I threatened to stab her with a dinner fork. Then I forced her to dive out of a plane in a liferaft and got her tangled up with some cultists who tried to use her for a human sacrifice."  
  
"Oh, is that all?" asked Rick rhetorically, shaking his head. "I suppose a few days spent walking in your footsteps would be enough to get any woman bent out of shape. Anything else you forgot to mention?"  
  
"Nothing particularly spectacular," said Indy, who could quite help being amused by how silly his story sounded. "Well, there was that incident with the bridge and the crocodiles, but I don't think that's just nitpicking compared to the rest of it."  
  
Laughing, Rick poured himself and Indy fresh drinks, and they shared a silent toast. In many ways, they were kindred spirits, both men of action who lived lives too exciting for the average person to contemplate.  
  
"Last I saw you, I was still running guns in Ethiopia," said Rick, knowing full well that Indy hadn't dropped in just to reminisce about old times. "What brings you to my little corner of Paris?"  
  
"Business, I'm afraid," said Indy, leaning close to Rick so that he wouldn't be overheard. "I need information. I need to know about any unusual activity taking place in Paris that might involve things or places of historical interest. Unusual German activities if you get my meaning."  
  
Rick's eyes widened just the slightest bit when Indy passed him a thick envelope, obviously full of francs. A considerable amount, Rick could tell just from the quantity that this was a 'no questions asked' type of transaction.  
  
"I'll see what I can find out," said Rick, sliding the envelope into the inside pocket of his white, dinner jacket. "Check back with me in a few days."  
  
From a far and dark corner of the Café Americain, Captain von Röhm watched the entire transaction with narrowed eyes.  
  
***  
  
End of Indiana Jones and the Golden Age #05  
  
***  
  
Dave's Homepage  
  
http://home.hawaii.rr.com/shaxberd/ 


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